down beside Sharpe.
“Jock!” He called a soldier.
“Hold onto my horse, will you?” The soldier led the horse off to a
patch of grass, and Urquhart jerked his head, inviting Sharpe to follow
him out of the company’s earshot. The Captain seemed embarrassed, as
was Sharpe, who was not accustomed to such intimacy with Urquhart.
“D’you use a cigar, Sharpe?”
the Captain asked.
“Sometimes, sir.”
“Here.” Urquhart offered Sharpe a roughly rolled cigar, then struck a
light in his tinderbox. He lit his own cigar first, then held the box
with its flickering flame to Sharpe.
“The Major tells me a new draft has arrived in Madras.”
“That’s good, sir.”
“It won’t restore our strength, of course, but it’ll help,” Urquhart
said.
He was not looking at Sharpe, but staring at the British guns that
steadily advanced across the grassland. There were only a dozen of the
cannon, far fewer than the Mahratta guns. A shell exploded by one of
the ox teams, blasting the beasts with smoke and scraps of turf, and
Sharpe expected to see the gun stop as the dying beasts tangled the
traces, but the oxen trudged on, miraculously unhurt by the shell’s
violence.
“If they advance too far,” Urquhart murmured, ‘they’ll become so much
scrap metal. Are you happy here, Sharpe?”
“Happy, sir?” Sharpe was taken aback by the sudden question.
Urquhart frowned as if he found Sharpe’s response unhelpful.
“Happy,” he said again, ‘content?”
“Not sure a soldier’s meant to be happy, sir.”
“Not true, not true,” Urquhart said disapprovingly. He was as tall as
Sharpe. Rumour said that Urquhart was a very rich man, but the only
sign of it was his uniform which was cut very elegantly in contrast to
Sharpe’s shabby coat. Urquhart rarely smiled, which made it difficult
to be easy in his company. Sharpe wondered why the Captain had sought
this conversation, which seemed untypical of the unbending Urquhart.
Perhaps he was nervous about the imminent battle? It seemed unlikely
to Sharpe after Urquhart had endured the cauldron of fire at Assaye,
but he could think of no other explanation.
“A fellow should be content in his work,” Urquhart said with a flourish
of his cigar, ‘and if he ain’t, it’s probably a sign that he’s in the
wrong line of business.”
“Don’t have much work to do, sir,” Sharpe said, wishing he did not
sound so surly.
“Don’t suppose you do,” Urquhart said slowly.
“I do see your meaning.
Indeed I do.” He shuffled his feet in the dust.
“Company runs itself, I suppose. Colquhoun’s a good fellow, and
Sergeant Craig’s showing well, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir.” Sharpe knew he did not need to call Urquhart ‘sir’ all the
time, but old habits died hard.
“They’re both good Calvinists, you see,” Urquhart said.
“Makes ’em trustworthy.”
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said. He was not exactly sure what a Calvinist was,
and he was not going to ask. Maybe it was the same as a freemason, and
there were plenty of those in the 74th’s mess, though Sharpe again did
not really know what they were. He just knew he was not one of them.
“Thing is, Sharpe,” Urquhart went on, though he did not look at Sharpe
as he spoke, ‘you’re sitting on a fortune, if you follow me.”
“A fortune, sir?” Sharpe asked with some alarm. Had Urquhart somehow
smelt out Sharpe’s hoard of emeralds, rubies, diamonds and sapphires?
“You’re an ensign,” Urquhart explained, ‘and if you ain’t happy you can
always sell your commission. Plenty of fine fellows in Scotland who’ll
pay you forA the rank. Even some fellows here. I gather the Scotch
Brigade has some gentlemen rankers.”
So Urquhart was not nervous about the coming fight, but rather about
Sharpe’s reaction to this conversation. The Captain wanted to be rid
of Sharpe, and the realization made Sharpe even more awkward. He had
wanted to be made an officer so badly, and already he wished he had
never dreamed of the promotion. What had he expected? To be slapped
on the back and welcomed like a long-lost brother? To be given a
company of troops? Urquhart was watching him expectantly, waiting for
a response, but Sharpe said nothing.